


I Am No Bird, And No Net Ensnares Me

by KaneNogami



Category: Litchi Hikari Club | Lychee Light Club
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Jacob is a good kid I love him, Nonbinary Character, autistic jaibo, mentions of Jai's terrible affection towards Zera although that's all in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: In which no one dies as the factory burns down before Litchi is completed. Children drift apart, hatred guiding their hearts until they grow bored of this too. The one who set everything ablaze has to carry a heavier weight, for wishing to murder everyone, including himself. There is no redemption, merely growth, trying to understand what humans are, and why they can't always reach for the stars.Ameya Jaibo is a terrible person.He doesn't truly care.





	I Am No Bird, And No Net Ensnares Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from an episode of Anne with an E. I found it appropriate, and since Raizou does enjoy the novel it comes from, I thought it was fun. 
> 
> This fic is filled with little headcanons, and how I see the characters. Being autistic myself, I recognized a similar pattern in Jaibo.  
> In the same way I write Raizou as a trans girl and Jaibo as nonbinary.
> 
> Huge warning for Jaibo's disastrous mental health and bad coping habits.

 

     Delight is found in mundane things, from marbles rolling against stairs, hitting one step after another, to the comfort of red pouring against his fingers. There is no middle ground, no passion which can be eased or controlled. Everything has to be abundant, excess shaping his existence. He laughs, glee audible in his breaking voice, imagining his father tripping on a marble and meeting an inevitable end. Where do these thoughts come from? More apparently, what's their destination meant to be? They echo somewhere, lost within themselves. Suffocating them would be a kind gesture, certainly. No matter how he sings, repeating words until he can taste them against his tongue, nothing falls into a place. An incomplete puzzle, a riddle which isn't meant to be solved. Marble rolling against his palm, he lifts it higher, hoping for the sun to allow its light inside. The colors would be such a sight, if only pollution hadn't engulfed the whole town long ago. It rolls after the others, struggling with corners, trying to catch up without managing to. He watches, as the marble collides with another, the sound loud enough for hands to press against their ears. Fools claim you can hear the sea by doing so, how ridiculous, that's merely your heart drowning in itself instead.

 

_Atrium. Ventricle. Aorta._ Countless precious words. A couple are difficult to swallow at once, better cut them in small pieces. Others must be savored, thus he repeats them until they are imprinted against his palate. The heart has countless valves, many forget the right order, that's a shame. The medical book on his lap isn't especially heavy. Colors make up for the smell of something too old, a chance the body hasn't evolved much. Red and blue, hints of pink.

 

That's funny, how he's unable to memorize classmates' names— oh, the human body is much more realistic. It's not an _identity_ one can build. Identities are too much at once, people who stick with the same name their whole life, never questioning who—what—they are supposed to be. How boring, how odd. He bore countless identities already, confused by labels added to them depending on the way they sound. Akiko, too feminine, Zera, recycled for the worst, Jaibo, always there. That's his favorite, who he can be for now.

 

Nonetheless, it's _Norimizu_ who resonates inside this house.

That's the kind of battle which doesn't deserve to be won.

 

Ah, that's exhausting, to fight against happiness. Why can't he give up already, instead of building bridges out of lie. You know, he knows, the world is aware, has always been. None of this is love, none of this is fair. That's deranged, to have emotions which can't even belong inside of him. Fingers trace the patterns of organs one after another, into the air. They all have one thing in common; they burn.

 

Melting into nothing, vanishing as flames reclaim them as an offering. He remembers, patients who didn't make it, smoke coming from the funeral house. It's still there, in his lungs, to the point they might have turned into ashes. The burn is there though, not an illusion. Starting from his shoulder, growing until it reaches his ear, skin damaged too close to his eye. That one doesn't see as well as before, the kind of side-effect people would rather not ask about. There are other remains, smaller, on hands and legs.

 

That's what you get, his father sighed, for your foolishness.

_For a boy_ , he spat, _a mere boy, not even deserving of this._

 

Was the 'he' his father, or himself? Jaibo isn't certain any longer.

 

Burning down factories while locking everyone inside, that's a form of affection in itself. A proof of a bond between himself and others— at times, Jaibo doesn't like that. No no, not the whole fire thing. Being seen as a boy. Girl wouldn't fit better. That's tiresome, to focus on complicated matters like these, thus he ignores them.

 

Burn scars are heavier against his skin, dead weight he doesn't appreciate. _They deserve it, they do! Boys, and Raizou, they should have seen it coming. That's their fault,_ and his tongue is dripping with venom, drops falling on the medical encyclopedia. He realizes, too late, that he bit it enough to draw blood.

 

They survived, every single one of them. In a twist of fight, he's the only one who got injured.

Jaibo wonders if there is a lesson meant to be found in this. Ah, as if he had learned anything from this world.

 

 

     The door doesn't open on possibilities, or a bright future. That's merely an absent father trying to compensate by coming home at midnight instead of four in the morning. What good will it do, they have nothing to rebuild, not even ashes to step on. The man stares, and he doesn't bother returning the favor, gaze falling on pages barely visible in the darkness. How long did he stay there, without moving? It feels like centuries and only seconds at once.

 

“Norimizu.”

 

Is this meant to be his name? _Hey old man, why do you never listen?_ Jaibo knows what's to come, being asked why he isn't sleeping. That's funny, to care when he was left on his own devices for most of his life, only getting scolded for getting too far. Kidnapping boys is a sin, and no one truly cares about girls. Or else, adults would have stepped in. Ah, the robot wasn't even finished in the end, destroyed in the blaze. That would have been unforgivable, to let Zera destroy everything.

 

So Jaibo did it instead.

 

He replies with a hum, thoughts dragging him down and down until his heart is an empty pit of nothing at all.

 

There is no conversation, there never is. His father walks into the kitchen, shoulders slumping down once he's out of view. And silence befalls them once more, Jaibo closing the encyclopedia. His room is a tiny thing, splatters of blood hidden under the rug, memories engraved in the wood of his bed. He has a chest full of clothes which don't even fit anymore, makeup and blades hidden in corners. The encyclopedia is thrown on an old pile, which crumbles at once. Medical books taken from the clinic, most of them.

 

Fingers trace the mark against his skin, remembering there are steps to care about healing burns. Whatever, his beauty is ruined, what's the point of living?

 

Jaibo would rather have burned with everything else.

 

 

      He hates. Or rather, he loves until it turns into hatred. Mother left because he was too difficult, father finding solace in nurses and work. What's left to salvage, hm? Not enough. And he regrets not killing them too, not getting rid of everyone on this forsaken planet. The club is still standing, isn't it? Without him. Or maybe it fell like the rest. That's fine, he never enjoyed this farce of friendship in the first place. How was he meant to appreciate any of them? Ah, taunting Kaneda had a fun side, the kind where consequences don't matter. He still wants to strangle that moron, for calling him creepy behind his back, alongside the others.

 

Jaibo doesn't care if they plan about murdering him at that point. They are children, afraid and limited by their shaky limbs, and he is a blade, shiny and brutal, able to eviscerate anything. Had they be found by someone, this person wouldn't have lived to see another day. A shame it never happened. _Do it for Zera. Do it for yourself._

 

In the end, that's exactly the same.

 

Two manipulators, using each other. That's easy, to appear stupid, isn't it? You just have to listen to your heart and its complicated demands. Jaibo used Zera, guiding his steps where he wanted him to be. And that's a cruel joke which turned against him in the end. Not his fault if emperors are silly, believing anyone offering praise. Ah, he should just moved on, picked another victim. Jaibo can't help his affection though, no matter how he loathes Zera, he is still attached. In the kind of wrong way which makes his stomach twist.

 

Outside, the world is covered in dirt and lies. He is safer inside, surrounding himself in boring things which keep his mind busy enough. The scars grow, or rather it feels as if they are spreading, soon covering his whole face. That's wrong, he can tell they haven't moved when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.

 

Still, he opens the door sometimes, stepping outside with a hoodie big enough to hide everything. Stepping through almost deserted streets, knife secured inside his pocket. How easy it would be, to cause a disaster and walk away. Why does he have such thoughts, where do they come from? Jaibo doesn't ask, there would be no answer anyway. He enters arcades, heading for areas where smoke is prominent in the air. Jaibo doesn't bother playing for too long, hitting buttons at random until the colors of the screen turn into a blur.

 

On his way back, after stopping in front of a vending machine for a drink, he spots him. Nemesis with black gloves and a frown on his face. What is he doing here? Trying to get a girl? As if they would let him, he is way too young, not even fourteen. Fortune tellers are good at taking your money, and perhaps Jaibo shouldn't have turned what an old man said into such a powerful thing, but he had fun by making Zera believes he would rule at that age.

 

Blade heavy inside his pocket, he considers options. Many branching into a violent path. He wants to say _I'm sorry_ , and _I'm not_ at once. Walking forward to grab his collar and throw him against the grounds, hoping he would break and shatter into dust from such meaningless gesture. Jaibo should turn around, vanishing into the shadows. Instead, he tugs on his hood, watching with glee—that's a lie, there is only the feeling of drowning—as Zera's eyes widen. _Traitor, monster, ugly wrench._ Oh please, these are too easy. Can't the emperor do better? Anxiety is sparkling in his eyes, to the point where Jaibo wonders if the other is going to throw up in the middle of the street. That would be gross.

 

A move catches his eyes, on the side where everything is a blur. And he recognizes Jacob (that's funny, that's the only one Jaibo doesn't truly hate, for he has never cared about his existence), stepping back inside—oh that's the bar belonging to his family, isn't it? He followed Raizou there once, on a day where he had nothing to do. Is Zera there to gain his old allies back, or was there a secret meeting?

 

“Don't step forward!” Zera shouts, and Jaibo has always been terrible at orders, rules never making sense.

 

So, he does the opposite.

 

There is no blood smeared on his lips, this time, no promise of anything eternal. Merely a clenched fist and the sound of glasses hitting the ground. Jaibo isn't certain of what happened until he sees his nemesis on the floor, ex-lover who wasn't truly one. Out of breath for no reason, he lowers his arm, knuckles aching from the punch. Does it feel good? He can't tell. Someone grabs his shoulder, tugging him backward, and his body almost fall, gaze suddenly up too high.

 

Still, there isn't any stars in the sky, smoke covering the whole world.

 

(That's not exactly the truth, he can catch a glimpse of something.)

 

Nico snarls, certainly screaming although his voice makes no sound. Jaibo might have lost the ability to hear, he can't tell. Wasn't it deserved, he wishes to ask. For both of them, in love in with the same boy once. Oh, that doesn't mean much. They know they share the same foolish dispositions, that's all. Nico is disgusting, no matter what. A dog who might have turned into a wolf, if the way he shouts at Zera (ah, this time he hears it) to leave them alone.

 

Obviously, the warning is not necessary for Jaibo, as Nico has other things to throw at him. No why or how though, they are past this stage. Have been for years maybe.

 

“That's your fault!”

 

_Yeah, and what?_ Can any of them fix what has been caused? There are levels of guilt, in the club, no one truly innocent. Jaibo and Zera are standing at the top, in separate corners, ruling over the others with their mistakes. No, they were calculated, you cannot call them errors. Jaibo's grand plan of revenge started years prior, and so did Zera's greed. He is pushed back, Nico releasing him with barred teeth. The owner is often the cruel one, not the dog. He doesn't doubt for one second, that Nico has already let go of Zera. Which might be a good thing, after all, it has been months since the club burned down.

 

The clinic, with its old walls and the constant smells of chemicals. Jaibo enjoyed being there for a while, walking without aim. Apparently, injecting various products into his veins to calm his brain down meant he was able to return home though. A shame.

 

“I know~” He offers instead, sing-song voice hoarse from the smoke inside the arcade and the late hour.

 

Zera is gone, having already ran off. Which is surprising, considering how weak he is. Standing together in front of the bar, he recognizes the old members, from two to seven. Nico is still too close, and he doesn't know how to tell him to back off without starting a fight. They both itch for it, don't they? Rivals until death, or something similar.

 

“You ruined everything.”

 

_Or maybe you did, by calling me a weirdo and trying to evict me._

_Or perhaps I did, by planning your death in return._

 

Giggling grows into his throat, coming out strangled. That's so funny—pathetic—how they still are the same.

 

He has no answer to offer, stepping back before turning around. Nico might be screaming, he doesn't want to listen anymore. That's enough. Everything is enough.

 

Jaibo goes home with bruised knuckles and the urge to rip his own skin off until he is back to being pretty.

 

 

     His father talks about school, a little bit randomly, while they eat dinner together. The meal is an oddity in itself. Jaibo stabs his food with chopsticks until it looks like a crime scene. Disapproving gaze is certainly on him, who sits with knees under his chin, playing with his food rather than eating it.

 

“I'm going to register you somewhere else.”

 

There is a hint in hysteria in his mind, at once. An urge to stuff the chopsticks in his father's throat, until he is choking on his words. Where will he be send? Some facility? Isn't it how parents do with children like him? They ensure no one else can see them, hiding kids like secrets.

 

Aggravated by the lack of answer, his father grabs the chopsticks, putting them next to the bowl so he can get his attention back. Jaibo isn't certain there is anything to say, honestly.

 

“Where?” He eventually lets out, sounding more threatening than he'd like to be.

 

“Another school farther away from home. You'd have to take the bus every morning although anything would be an improvement over you lamenting alone in this house.”

 

_That's all?_ Can't they leave this town? He is sick of it. No matter how factories have started to close over the past years, the air won't recover anytime soon. And everything remains ugly and horrible. He hates this place.

 

_Where_ _is mother_ , he wonders, only to dig nails into his marred throat. That's not the kind of question one should ask. She's gone, sending a letter from time to time and nothing more. He wants to strangle her too, for that. For abandoning him as if he were— a nuisance.

 

“Norimizu.”

 

His father is standing by his side, removing the hand from his throat by prying one finger after another, until it falls back by his side. That's not enough, that won't fix anything. What's the point of school anyway? He doesn't want to meet another boy only to turn into a monster again. That's too exhausting, to be like this, racing thoughts which never stop.

 

“I don't want to.”

 

_If you force me, I'll kill you. Kill. Kill. Kill. Ki—_

 

“Do you intend on becoming a cryptid then? Feeding on medical books until your fingers ache so much you'll want to practice on something alive _again_?”

 

He giggles, countless teeth in his mouth, piercing gums to get out as he grins at his father. _Yes, that's exactly what is going to happen, how did you know?_

 

“I won't allow it.”

 

Why care now, after countless wasted years? Isn't it his father who opposed a clear diagnosis, or rather hide the results from everyone in fear of being ostracized or pitied? Jaibo gets up, limbs complaining as he does so. Oh he misses climbing everywhere during his free time, spying on this world until exhaustion. His father has this grave expression which means he is nothing more than an unruly child and that's the worst. Alongside the prospect of going back to school, obviously.

 

“This time, you'll be placed in a class more fit for your needs, which will certainly be beneficial to your mental health.”

 

Oh, the forbidden words have been pronounced out loud, how odd. _Atrium. Ventricle. Aorta._ He recites his new favorites into his head, able to see the diagram by focusing enough on the memory. To talk about mental health, that's abnormal. Ah, he might have almost died in the fire, mostly from smoke, albeit it's not enough to make him redeemable for anything. Morality has always been such a complicated matter. It should be him who decides what's fair, this way love would always prevail. Or death, but isn't it kind of similar and eternal?

 

 

     There was a plan once, something grand about rising at the top of the world; how boring. Jaibo has little time for mind games when he isn't the one pulling on the strings until they snap one after another. That wasn't difficult, to set the factory on fire, watching smoke rise and invade his lungs until flames licked his skin. He would rather have not survived, would have been fine with killing the others alongside an unfinished robot. A pity he woke up a couple of days later.

 

Now, Jaibo has no goal. Back to square one, sitting on the steps of endless stairs. How he loathes school and its nonsensical rules. There are less, for kids rotten from the inside. That's a cruel way to treat oneself, he guesses without caring. Classmates are passing faces, none interesting enough for him. Thus, he is fine with sitting at the back, although it's harder with only seven students in the classroom. Eight would have been a more convenient number, something hilarious~ Ah no, he does not find any of this remotely pleasant any longer.

 

By the time he leaves the school, almost forgetting to switch shoes, the sky has gotten darker, clouds awaiting the right moment to throw a downpour at him. Who cares, he already looks so terrible, no matter how his hoodie shields his damaged face. That's not truly a violation of the school uniform, as long as he wears his jacket above it. Still, that's a pain, to have to be seen by people. Soon, aging lines will appear on his face, forcing Jaibo to cut them off. He flaps his hands into the air as he awaits for the bus, wondering if he couldn't simply get lost on unfamiliar streets instead. The result would be the same, he isn't one for homework or happy family life.

 

That's asking too much from him.

 

A familiar sound catches his attention, making him spin to stare at the cat standing on the other side of the street. Ah, a distraction! It's a piece of cake to erase everything else from his field of vision, bus forgotten as he follows the feline for a while. There is a switchblade inside his pocket, alongside something else. Father got him a smartphone, which is kind of laughable, since he has no friend to talk with on Line. And no one to call either. He has never been one for technology, for some reason.

 

Too distracting, a lack of bodies against each other. Jaibo ought to feel alive by drawing blood, by watching fear or devotion in the eyes of people. Rage too, and hatred. Ah, antagonizing the members of the club was so simple.

 

His gaze gets caught in a vending machine shining brightly. Does he have coins? He presses buttons without thinking and eyes closed, playing a game with himself, wondering what he'll get this time around. It tastes fine, something fruity he isn't familiar with. A shame that's not lychee—well perhaps not. He definitely disgusted himself from ever eating anything lychee-flavored in this lifetime. The cat is gone, which might be a relief. Less hurry to throw everything in the washing machine. Before, he was fine with allowing bloody clothes to linger on the floor for days. Father wasn't here to complain anyway.

 

What's different now?

 

Why does he bother playing pretend again? Jaibo couldn't care less, nor he wants to ask that man anyway.

 

Lost, he wanders for what feels like hours, until the sky is black and his drink long finished. By the time he opens the front door, he isn't surprised in the slightest by the eerie silence inside. Still at the clinic, hm? An old playground, the best place to get chemicals and toy with them. They never fixed his brain, neither they calmed him down enough, no matter how he tried. Jaibo doesn't bother bathing, refusing to face his body for this long. A quick shower later, he opens the fridge only to stare at it, giving up to sit in front of the television. Later, he'll do the same thing, foolishly hoping for its contents to have changed in the meantime.

 

It never works.

 

Jaibo doesn't get better.

 

 

      Blood is quick to return, sliding under his fingernails and sticking to his clothes. That's his nature, people will say no matter what, it can't be helped if he is a monster. Jaibo has no reason to listen, nor he will stop for morons who cannot realize he is merely free. In a gruesome way, for sure. The kind which takes everything away each time he tries to slow down. The house has no need for locks or bedtime, as he is not one to respect such rules in the first place. Jumping off the window isn't scary, as long as he doesn't think about his feet hitting the ground.

 

He's gone for the night, in the blink of an eye, climbing over fences and ignoring passerby smelling like cheap alcohol and tobacco. The ache is there, when his shoulder winces under the scar. Oh, fuck that, he is not the child who wanted to inflict pain only to be terrified of being hurt in return. Jaibo has grown up quite nicely, reaching eighteen without dying or killing even once.

 

He guesses the second part is slightly more impressive, considering he still fantasies about burning the club down a second time. Doors should have been blocked, thus he wouldn't have been the only to pay for their crime. Love was too expensive, Jaibo would rather cut his heart off, severing aortas and veins until he can finally feel something which isn't this dullness echoing through his whole body. High school isn't compulsory, he tells the man who calls himself his father one evening, mentally reciting the names of the bones in his hand as he did so.

 

“I'm not going~ You forced me to finish junior high, that's enough.”

 

“Norimizu, why are you such a stubborn child?”

 

_Phalanges._ Distal, middle, proximal. Breaking them is the easiest, you do not have to apply too much pressure. The trick is to start from the top, rather than the bottom, or else you might fail at reaching for the highest one, once the others are shattered.

 

“You should let me rot on the streets and die, this way you wouldn't have to bother. More time to fuck your ugly nurses~”

 

“Norimizu!”

 

_Metacarpal_. Slightly different, higher resistance. It's fine, there are methods to shatter all of them at once, if you apply the right level of pressure. He should have tried that on Kaneda, maybe he would have whined less then.

 

“That's not my name.”

 

“I know!”

 

_Carpal_. Scaphoid fracture. The displaced kind is the absolute worst. An excellent way to get rid of whatever bothers you. If you hit with brutal strength, the bones will move enough to overlap and cause a great amount of pain.

 

“Then use the right one! You shitty excuse for a father!”

 

“You're a pathetic one of a child yourself.”

 

Jaibo loses, as usual.

Seems the old man has learned to stand his ground, or rather to be stern without being afraid of getting poisoned at the dinner table. How bothersome. In the end, they fight, he leaves for the night. It's always the same routine.

 

There is comfort found in repetition, at least.

 

Jaibo goes to high school, refuses to join any club (not that anyone would want him around in the first place, his reputation is still sticking to him like gelatin on a spoon), and remains a problem child. The story is always the same.

 

Some nights, when stars aren't visible at all—they should be, he loves them more than his shitty existence, dots connected into something so pretty—Jaibo twists his knife into something warm and comforting. Until there are ugly blotches of whatever internal liquid he got on him this time around on his clothes. That's a pain to clean, even more now that he somehow cares about it. Love is out of the picture, burned down alongside his beauty and a decrepit factory where they could have caught tetanus.

 

His hair falls in front of his face on the scarred side, just enough to hide what's too difficult to explain. He has stopped finding comfort in scarves or bandages. Hoods were compulsory, the first years. Now everyone is aware of what he is, so Jaibo has long given up on pretending he's not this marred kid without a future.

 

 

      The bar isn't a place he is familiar with. It's not on his usual route for the night. He stops by anyway, glaring at his reflection in the window, using a sleeve to rub blood off his face. There isn't much. These days, he is careful, cutting right where it won't cause any pain. That's far from enough, isn't it? Stabbing living creatures, no matter if he does it in one go or if he tortures them—it's still horrendous.

 

Inside, warmth hits his face, forcing him to blink. He isn't here to soak in alcohol or laughter, more at ease close to the wall until he reaches a place to sit. No one will check for his age, aware of his underage state without caring. It's the rotten town, where it's more reassuring to watch a child drown his sorrows in booze than imagining them in dark alleys, exchanging everything for seconds of fake happiness.

 

_If you can't_ _produce_ _your own_ _serotonin_ _, store bought is fine,_ Jaibo laughs in a corner of his head, remembering the taste of lychee against his tongue.

 

Conversations aren't as loud as he feared, allowing him to become blurry in the midst of smoke, alone in a corner. The person who walks to him, heels barely touching the ground as they spin from table to table, distributing drinks with a bright expression, is another ghost of his past. There is a hint of surprise, quickly fading behind—Jaibo cannot tell. It's there though, a glint in dark eyes as he sits in front of him, immediately leaning forward while crossing his arms on the table.

 

“It's you!”

 

Personal space was never one of Jacob's qualities. Not that Jaibo would be aware, as they barely interacted back then. Both at the extreme ends of a stupid line of misplaced affection and unwanted contact. Jaibo isn't certain he wants to stay, or reply. He presses, tentatively, marred cheek against his palm, titling his head as he does so.

 

Will he notice the remains of blood sticking to his skin?

Jacob has—who is he? Outside of the short boy who made crude remarks about women and everyone around him. A prankster, in a harmless way which didn't bother Jaibo back then, as the guy knew better than to piss him off.

 

A shame the others weren't as clever.

 

Had he murdered him alongside these pathetic ants, he would have called it collateral damage.

 

“It's me,” he repeats lamely.

 

Shouldn't he ask for his order, instead of chatting? Jaibo isn't certain to have change in his pockets. He doesn't feel like pushing his luck by checking if it's the case or not. At worst, he can run and never been caught. His father will deal with consequences, since he is so keen on keeping him as his child.

 

“Are you here to visit me? That's a little odd, but I can deal. After all, Ran was talking about you the other day—not behind your back, merely wondering how you were doing?”

 

“Ran?”

 

“Oh, number two. Did you forget our princess?”

 

There is glee in his tone as he takes his phone out to shove it in Jaibo's face. He recognizes the couple happily posing, disgust flaring inside his chest right away. Not at them, nor the situation. Merely at this cruel idea that everyone can and deserve to be loved. It's such a joke. Still, he takes a moment to notice the change in the person Jacob is standing next to. The confident smile and bright outfit. Are those matching couple shirts? That's the kind of things old people do, not teenagers like them. Not that he would know, since he hasn't seen anyone since—

 

“Ran, then. Ran. Ran. Ran~” Echolalia invades the space between them for a while, until Jaibo returns the phone.

 

“Pretty name for a pretty lady. Never use the old one again, okay?”

 

He sounds so in love it's absolutely disgusting. Wasn't he the kid who used to lust after idols? Character growth or something. Jaibo would gladly share his own new found maturity, if he had any. A part of him wants to ask for Zera's whereabouts. Another is almost screaming he needs to get out before his knife finds a way into Jacob's ugly smile.

 

“Why are you here, Jaibo?” Hasn't he asked this already?

 

“Bad day.”

 

_Do you truly mention me_ , he'd like to add. Is he akin to the monster under children beds, lurking for the right moment to snap his teeth into soft ankles? Certainly. _Atrium. Ventricle. Aorta._ Degenerate club members who pretend to lead normal lives when they were on the verge of kidnapping and ruining everything around them. Jaibo's affection was exactly as twisted, beating inside his heart and twisting the ventricles until they looked torn apart and too ugly to stay inside his chest.

 

“Let's fix this then.”

 

Is Jacob still going to school? Or is working full-time alongside his family? Jaibo has no strength to care nor ask. He is more at ease once the other is gone, dropping a colored drink in front of him before vanishing again minutes later.

 

The purple shade is a good indication it's not lychee flavored, or so he hopes. The burning ache in his throat, leaving him parched suddenly, is enough for Jaibo to clench his fingers around the glass. The hint of grape is hidden under something strong he has never tasted before. To be honest, all alcohol more or less feels the same to the teenager. Some bad little kids roam through their parents' cabinets, grabbing bottles and testing them for a pretense of fun. He did experiment something greater in the clinic, learning about needles and products you can inject directly into your veins.

 

In retrospect, the more Jaibo recalls his childhood, the less he understands how he survived past the elementary school with such habits.

 

 

      Later, as he wonders why he is so keen on finding himself in places engulfed in smoke where breathing is secondary, he realize he shouldn't have drank so fast. His insides are on a boat, dangling from the lower deck, straight above the ocean. Pushing the chair back with his feet, Jaibo intensifies the sensation of drowning, wondering if one could throw up their internal organs. Depends on the size, as many wouldn't pass through the esophagus.

 

“Did you like the cocktail?”

 

“Hm~”

 

“Do you want another?”

 

Is poisoning him the goal of the night? The possibility is there, paranoia creeping inside his clouded mind until he realizes it's Jacob. The guy who got dragged in the club alongside his—girlfriend now, certainly not a schemer or anyone worthy of attention.

 

“How's Zera?”

 

That's a definite 'no, don't give me more alcohol' on the bright side. He should rip his tongue off, swallowing it and choking rather than making assumptions. It's unlikely that the club still exists, even less than Zera has been forgiven. It wouldn't be fair, there are both monsters. Jaibo refuses to be the only one to pay for what they have done.

 

“I have no idea, my bad. I haven't seen him in a while. We don't go to the same school—in fact I believe he dropped out last year?”

 

Oh.

So Jaibo is pursuing an education against his will when this trash is allowed to be an anxiety-driven creature barring teeth and avoiding human contact? Definitely _unfair._

 

“I don't think—I mean, it doesn't sound like a super cool idea for you two to talk again.” Jacob chuckles, although it seems forced as he sits backward on the chair, chin against wood.

 

“I know~ I'm not seeking his presence.”

 

Their bodies are rotten, intestines turned black due to the lies they fed on for years. Jaibo merely wants to cut both of them open, removing everything which doesn't bend and calling it a day. It's hard to voice such thought. His therapist wouldn't approve.

 

“Okay! You have blood on your forehead,” Jacob's chirpy voice is already on the verge of making him snap. Which would be insulting as Jaibo believes he has learned enough self-control to avoid doing anything annoying.

 

“It happens.”

 

Jacob, more helpful than he remembers him, points at his own face, showing exactly where he should rub his fingers. Better not scare dad off upon returning home or something. Not that the old man is able to show more than disappointment when he finds white and black mixed with red in the washing machine. The whole stuff about colors is a pain, Jaibo doesn't see why they can't wash everything at once. Blood has not tainted his school uniform in such a long time, as he finds relief in getting changed into something more comfortable right after class, walking around as some nameless monster instead of That kid.

 

Therapist number two actually encouraged him to wear only outfits he completely feels at ease in, as it would limit his sensory-related shutdowns. Or was it about breakdowns? Aren't they all the same shitty ending to every situation anyway? Jaibo doesn't care about that or anything at all.

 

“I wanted for everyone to die. Die. Die.”

 

_Stay away. I don't care about your jokes or your voice or existence!_

 

“That makes sense! It's kinda—we can tell. I mean, I can so everyone must be able to!”

 

Laughter pierces his ears.

 

Most adults (they are still kids) have thirty-two teeth. _Incisors. Canines. Molars. Premolars._ Would he shut up if Jaibo removed them one after another, only leaving bleeding gums behind? Perhaps not. The chair falls back against the floor properly, Jaibo wondering about the pounding in his insides and the gross boy who grew into—why did they even _grow_? That's against the club's freaky rules?

 

The ones Jaibo never bothered to learn or chant alongside his companions, although he remembers them against his will.

 

“Why are you talking to me, then?”

 

“I don't know you, that's why—You know! It all makes sense in my head, somehow. A lot less when I open my mouth.”

 

_Then keep it closed_

 

“Let me try one more time! You're Jaibo. Maybe Zera hates you but I don't like him very much either, Ran says you're super rude, and Tamiya warned me about never approaching you because you're a crazy bastard. Kaneda is terrified of you still, and—and Nico—Oh Nico really doesn't wanna see your pretty face around anymore. I'm not sure about the rest. To me, though, you're a stranger. This is a bar, so I serve you like anyone else. The rule is—” Jacob grins so widely it's almost painful. “Patrons have stories. Bad ones, good ones. We're a small place, we pour booze in glasses and give it to them. Sometimes they talk in return, but it's not our place to stop it. We just can't share it with the world. Like a shrink, but with less advice and more alcohol.”

 

Jaibo can feel the sexist remark about the lack of gorgeous older women in the bar at such hour coming from a mile away. Jacob, to his credit, seems to remember it's not appropriate, swallowing it deep inside his throat rather than spitting it on the table.

 

He muses over the words, how he is still the black sheep without being an object of hatred to the other. That's abnormal, somehow.

There isn't any fondness in being a creature feeding on innocent children, merely a fake sense of stability he loathes. Missing marbles rolling against his palms rather than blades snapping skin off, Jaibo presses fingers against his burned neck.

 

That's a tricky test without the right answer. Apologizing is—Jaibo has the impression offering nonsensical sentences without an ounce of sincerity won't bring anything great from the encounter.

 

“Can I come again?”

 

“Yup, anytime as long as we are open.”

 

Sounds acceptable.

 

“If we are lucky, you'll learn how to pay too!”

 

_Not tonight._

 

 

 

     Jaibo never throws the first punch. He detests physical encounters—of fighting nature or any—bones colliding with the ground as he is shoved without pity. He isn't tall or especially strong, with a marvelous ability of making people mad at him. Father, ex-friends, teachers. Words rarely come out, or rather they used to stay inside when he was younger. Years without saying more than a couple of sentences, finding solace in repeating the same words, without anyone caring about what it meant.

 

Jaibo used to be terrified of receiving pain so much he learned to always inflict it first. Boys wouldn't have been dragged home, sacrificed on the shrine of innocence, had they cooperated a little more. He's amazing at making excuses for himself, again and again. There were always rumors and snarls, as he walked by at school. _That's fine, his dad is a brilliant doctor, so he can pay people to shut them up_. That's kind of pitiful, isn't it? To throw money instead of fixing your child, of asking 'what's wrong, are you sad?'

 

_No, I'm angry._

_Yes, I don't belong._

 

Which one is right?

 

Even as Jaibo lays on the ground, blood pooling in his mouth, he doesn't think of home. His phone is somewhere, for sure. In a pocket, tucked away from the world. He could call his father, say 'Oh guess who got stabbed?' except the blade didn't rip anything off. The punches were deadlier, bruising lips and jaw. Are all the ribs fine, he wonders while staring at a lonely star, gaze narrowed in concentration. He spits on the ground, wiping his mouth after. Blood is warm, always.

 

Who attacked him? Couldn't have been Nico, although they shared the rage. It echoed through each blow, as they mentioned something he has already wiped off his memory. Something about a debt, an old memory of someone he crossed paths with. That's hilarious, how many people he seems to get under his skin these days, now that he is supposed to lead a less terrible life.

 

“Mount Fuji. Star. Spoon. Organs,” he sings to himself, sitting up while a fire burns through his veins. He didn't stab back.

 

The truth is: Jaibo is really trying to be less of a piece of shit.

 

He did bite though. Harshly. Mostly with the _canines_ to pierce skin. Favorite teeth, for sure. He is nineteen, no more school or anything to drag him back, no authority to put him in his place, whatever it means. He did complete high school, which was really—he only did it to graduate with a smirk on his face, as to tell people 'fuck you I'm not dumb, I'm not a monster, I'm a student'. His father standing there though, taking pictures of him, that made his heart dull and heavy. Was the pride real? He didn't bother asking, too used to falsities. He has an impressive medical knowledge, that's his sole talent.

 

Twenty will mean deteriorating.

 

Can't rot if you're already bleeding to death from the inside months prior. He is not though. Jaibo is able to tell, mostly, hand pressing against the wound to keep everything in place. It would be a delight to feel guts around his fingers, twisting them into ribbons to strangle himself with—

 

_Why_? Where do these thoughts come from, always?

Is there a pattern? A reason behind this constant craving for gore and pathetic endings?

 

If only Zera had sent the guy after him, it would have been grand. An excuse for a meeting. Except he is still a stalker and there is no need for those. His ex-lover—

 

Wrong, that wasn't love. On his side it was obsession to the point of murder-suicide, on the other it was an empty pit swallowing everything.

 

His Zera.

 

Wrong again.

 

Tsunekawa has trapped himself into his own web of lies, becoming a shut-in for years. Only to vanish alongside his family, moving somewhere else without a warning. That's not even pleasant, to hear he won't face the past. He isn't covered in scars aching no matter how years have passed, little kids gasping and mothers averting their gaze. _It hurts,_ he wants to shake him until his brain collapses, _it hurts and it's not fair, I wish we had never met_.

 

_Fuck you_ , Jaibo ought to shout in his face one day, _fuck you and your club and your lychees and your anxiety and your inability to see I manipulated you from the start. Fuck you, for taking everything and yet being the person who gave me the more attention in my whole life._

 

Instead, he tries to forget, only for tonight, to grab his thoughts to put them in order, only for a while. To find where home is. Ah, he doesn't truly want to go back, but he can't bleed out in Jacob's bar—can he?

 

 

     “What is wrong with you, getting stabbed? Coming to bother us on our romantic night? Where are your manners! Be lucky you're not a gross boy, or I would have let you to die outside!”

 

Ran is complaining a lot, for someone who is spread on the couch as Jacob patches his wounds one after another. He sticks his tongue out when he's focused, which is ridiculous. At least, she didn't call him 'a yucky boy' or something as juvenile. Not that gross is much of an improvement. He avoids mentioning what they both know; neither of them has ever been a boy.

 

Apparently, she shares the flat with Jacob's family, right above the bar. They are still working downstairs, therefore it's only the three of them. How odd, not reminiscent of what they used to be in the slightest. After all, outside of arguing with the vain bitch, Jaibo didn't communicate much with Ran.

 

Or anyone, which is starting to sound like a habit. Even after all these years, he still doesn't have a single friend.

 

Bandages wrap around his waist, securing the wound for a while. Perhaps he'll need stitches. Which is something Jaibo won't go through without local anesthesia and clean needles. A good thing his father has his own clinic, hm?

 

“Your dad is a doctor,” Ran remarks, sounding lame, “you could have visited him at the clinic.”

 

“I'm a disappointment.”

 

“Doesn't he know that already, like all of us?”

 

That—Jaibo deserves it. He takes a deep breath, emptying his lungs before filling them to the brim once more.

 

“Maybe. You didn't throw me-me-me-me out.”

 

“Jacob says you're a precious customer, so I am forced to yield this battle.”

 

“Precious?”

 

“Hey, it's nothing like that! You come by often these days, that's all.”

 

It's true. His feet linger on the streets until boredom make his legs ache. That's how he finds himself sitting in front of Jacob, offering a couple of sentences about his mood and what happened since his last visit. He accepts drinks, even paying for them now, pushing coins on the counter once he is done, wasting hours in the bar. He has switched to non-alcoholic drinks most nights, not keen on getting another addiction. The previous ones were bad enough.

 

They are not friends, it's too superficial, isn't it? Pathetic, to have no one else he trust. Glancing at his lap, Jaibo wonders why they didn't simply ignore him. He notices Ran, scrunching her nose as she takes into account how he dirtied everything with blood. There is nothing glamorous or beautiful in organs or body fluids, no one else seems to care about these things.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

It's not concern.

Jaibo isn't certain, doesn't care.

 

“I'm sorry,” he tries.

 

He's trying.

 

“Are you? Like really?”

 

“Come on Ran-cutie, you know he is really bad with the whole people thing!”

 

“Ran-cutie? What a terrible nickname, Jacob.”

 

She looks pleased nonetheless, getting back on her feet to observe their unwanted guest. Fingers drum against her waist for a moment, as she is deciphering the sincerity of the confession.

 

“You ought to say what for.”

 

“I dragged you into my terrible scheme, it wasn't right. To decide for you and everyone,” he won't apologize more than that, that's not redemption. He can't get that, “I should have only murdered Zerachin. Knife deep in his throat like his dick was once in mine.”

 

“Too much information!”

 

_Fine, fine._

Ran's disgusted expression doesn't bother him much. She's a pure maiden—

 

“So, Jaibo, you wanna watch a movie with us or something?”

 

“I just told you—”

 

“You're sorry, yes, that's very good! You're an ass, like forever, but at least you did that. A little bit too late! Better than never, I guess! So, which kind of movie do you like?”

 

“I don't know. I don't watch many.”

 

“Cool! Then let's go with something fun.”

 

“Oi, Jacobabe, it's my turn to choose!”

 

“Is it? I can't remember, my bad.”

 

If they do not stop with the awful nicknames, Jaibo will jump off the balcony, injuries or not.

 

 

    The movie ends late, sleepiness getting a yawn out of him on this way back. It won't happen again, meeting like this, sharing snacks and worrying for the main lead together. That's fine, Jaibo isn't asking for such scene to repeat itself. Once already feels overwhelming. He opens the front door by pressing all his weight against it, finding a shadow figure staring back at him from the top of the stairs.

 

The air is oppressive, a hint of electricity, as if a storm was brewing above them.

 

“Dad,” he tests the word, unsure of what it implies, “thanks.”

 

_For keeping my alive when I was shouting at you to let me die every night for years._

 

The next day, they can go back to be uneasy around each other, it doesn't matter. Ameya is not a great name, and father and child cannot suddenly turn into people with a good heart. He climbs the stairs, struggling to keep his balance, jacket loosely hanging on his shoulders. It falls off at some point, without Jaibo turning around to retrieve it.

 

“Are you feeling fine?”

 

How many people are going to ask that on the same night? The person who beat him up had the decency not to, which makes him the less bothersome one he encountered.

 

“I'm feeling too much.”

 

The whisper comes out strangled, his throat parched as if he wasn't meant to say anything of such nature. Who cares? Who wants to hear him complain about his crimes and consequences? Before he can spin around and change his mind, reverting back to wearing a monster' skin above his own, there is a weight over his head.

 

The jacket. It presses against his hair, leaving Jaibo confused. He pursues his lips together, considering throwing his head back to make it crash back on the floor. He doesn't, though. Instead, he uses a hand to tug it further above his head, so it won't fall off.

 

“I'm mad at you, inside my heart. A lot. Often. At mum too.”

 

Rarely, as he can't portray her face properly. The edges always turn into a blur, leading him to simply forget her existence. There is a balance, in neglect and abuse. One he doesn't get so well. On all accounts, he has done everything wrong. Others did too, starting with his parents. He hums, softly.

 

“I'm flesh, and organs, and bones. You are too. Everyone is. No one is like me though.”

 

_Kyaha._ He adds his usual laughter, letting it hang flatly at the end of the sentence. Racing thoughts and a mean heart, his old classmates didn't have these, outside of Tsunekawa. The worst is that they weren't that similar either.

 

“Jaibo.”

 

That's his name. The one he picked for himself, hissing at anyone trying to take it away. His father started to accept it over the past months, as if graduating meant suddenly having rights in a twisted way. Now, his wishes are not the whims of an unstable teenager. That's not so comforting.

 

“Can we leave this forsaken town?”

 

There is no reply, his father unable to comply with such suggestion. That's where he has always been, a flourishing clinic bearing his name, and citizens so grateful for his presence. It's fine, Jaibo doesn't need permission to do as he pleases.

 

He's sick of spoons and gelatin, of old faces who aren't allies or enemies.

 

 

     Change fills him with disgust. Planets orbit around the sun, following a constant pattern unless something shifts them off. Jaibo is an asteroid then, crashing straight into the first mass on his course, shattering its surface and only leaving remains behind. He texts Jacob on Line that evening, on others too. That's part of his new routine, colorful stickers being faster than having to actually type his thoughts. Jacob responds, when he isn't working. Sometimes Ran even join in. She hasn't made a remark on the fact she is the prettiest nowadays, he's grateful for that somehow.

 

Jaibo waxes his body aggressively, unable to stop himself from compulsively chasing body hair. His skin gets red and ugly afterward, when he is too rough. Outside, people are more focused on the faded scars across his skin, forever present. He has grown into those, finding them less ugly as years went by. He draws on his body with colorful markers when he is bored, trying to follow the pattern of his veins and tracing bones. That's soothing, somehow, less violent than carrying a blade everywhere he goes.

 

He does it anyway, finding relief in not using it.

 

No one knows him around there.

 

Father sends money, paying for a flat he is allowed to keep as long as he remains an average citizen. The first days he spent alone in this this new place, Jaibo made himself sick countless times, certain he wouldn't be able to walk in a new neighborhood to find found. He recalls, faintly, his memory a blur, opening Line to talk to Jacob and asking how he was meant to exist so far away from everything he knew.

 

_Or_ _der_ _stuff_ _online_ , the reply showed on his screen, leaving him bleary and frustrated.

 

Suffocating, even surrounded by food delivered by some college student, isn't viable on the long run. Hence Jaibo bracing himself for disaster as he unlocks the door days later, taking tentative steps around town. That's only one hour away from Keikou by train, his father repeated as he was still excited at the prospect of starting anew. Then came dread, once alone. It remains there, bouncing against his stomach until he wants to throw up. Strays avoid him with such care he would bet they were warned about his existence by their friends. It's better this way, as he is improving at the whole not hurting anything goal. His new therapists are—correct. They listen, offering advice and medicine to slow down his mind when he can't do it alone. That's enough, Jaibo isn't asking from more.

 

A job might help. Being a productive member of society, what a noble goal! Bleh. He isn't fond of the concept, barely managing to feed himself every day. So many details, rules to remember. His memory is fantastic for many things, conversations from the club coming back, as unwanted guests, completely intact. What did he eat for dinner last night though? Absolutely no idea. Jaibo walks in the middle of empty streets, wind blowing against his face until he spins around, walking backward instead. It pushes against his back, as if he could fly only by going faster.

 

Adults break when they fall, he has to be careful.

No wait!

He is young. Twenty isn't old at all, why did they believe it would be the end of the world?

 

He wants to climb, to stand at the top, watching bothersome ants crawling at his feet, without stepping on them. That's fine if they exist, he can simply avoid them.

 

As his back collides with a pole, gently, Jaibo starts giggling, unable to stop himself. Here, you can see the sky, it's not like Keikou. Stars are multiplying, faint points above him. Change is terrifying, akin to losing everything in exchange for an uncertain future. Nonetheless, Jaibo doesn't mind, right now.

 

 

     Frankly, irony has always been the backbone of their little club, friendships broken and decisions made on a whim, coming back to bite them in the ass later. The bar is meant to be some kind of safe heaven for people like him, the kind who don't belong. There was a parade (Keikou didn't have one) where he saw these people carrying so much colors around he almost went blind. He isn't the best representation, he told them, echolalia punctuating each sentence on a bad day, definitely not what they want around. He is many things at once, they replied, welcoming him. They don't know, maybe they don't have to.

 

They explain, bothering to do so unlike previous adults in his life (ah, he's one too now). Nothing wrong with love. Some with kidnapping, Jaibo supposes, finding amusement in doing so in a corner of his mind. His smile is as sharp as his blade when he toys with the pins they have at the center. A community place where everyone can feel safe. And a little basket filled with these pins, all with different rainbows. Jaibo runs them between his fingers, hesitating on which ones he wants to bring home.

 

Can he decide later?

_Yes, obviously._

 

After that, he visits often, sneaking pins in his pockets only to return them the following week. He doesn't think it's him, or rather he can't tell yet. He likes the rainbow, although it's vibrant and loud, unlike himself. The pin shines under the light, and he plays with it for hours in the sun, sitting on the ledge of his balcony.

 

The old lady living next door scolds him at first, for being reckless. She gives up after a while, opting to slide a plate of biscuits between their flats instead. It hangs precautionary on the space between balconies, edges resting against each side. He grabs one with his free hand, remembering about 'thank you' and 'you're welcome' right after doing so.

 

She sees the pin, probably, without commenting on it. Maybe she doesn't know what it means.

 

Cool, he'd rather not switch it again.

 

There is another, weeks later, on his desk. It's different, less stripes, although he cherishes it too. For the ones who are neither. He knows about gender disorder or whatever they call it. That's—too difficult. Being neither though, he can say it. Just don't ask him about details or why or how.

 

Jaibo is Jaibo. He's gay and not a man or a woman.

He practices saying it, sitting in front of the television to watch movies Jacob and Ran want him to see. They call it 'classics'. He finds them too long sometimes, even with his meds.

 

He watches them bits by bits, absorbing scenes and then replaying out in a corner of his head the next day.

 

Dialogues repeat until he starts being able to use sentences in his every day life, chatting with the old neighbor about her plants and cooking. He finds it easier, somehow, to hear and listen at once. Before, he only did the first one, and it didn't help much.

 

Somehow, it leads him to being invited to bar night. Another place where no one will judge, they promise, leaving Jaibo uneasy. He isn't afraid much for himself, mostly for others. There is a distance hard to cross, some kind of limit he can't see clearly. He stays in a corner, toying with his drink with one hand, the pins on his jacket with the other. They are an appropriate distraction, until he hears the voice.

 

There are details which remain in your memory forever, no matter what.

Terrible or fantastic, these are there to stay, unable to be chased.

 

He steps forward, avoiding people with ease, chasing a ghost with his eyes until he finds him. His old nemesis is glorious, in a dark suit, boasting about his latest—oh is it about a book again? Boring!

 

“Tsunekawa,” he calls out, extending a hand to touch his shoulder, only to withdraw immediately. It burns under his fingers, a fire as deadly as the one he started years prior.

 

Startled by the sudden presence, Tsunekawa flickers his wrist too fast, probably to indicate he should stay away. Except it allows his glass to slip off, almost crashing on the floor, if not for Jaibo's quick reflexes. He stares at the content spilled on his sleeve, something blue and flavorless. How uncanny, he decides while handing the glass back, to meet there.

 

Stutter is the only greeting Tsunekawa indulges in, unable to get anything out properly. The great emperor, beckoned by megalomaniac tendencies and a constant fear of being back stabbed. Jaibo allows a pause before stepping back.

 

Space. He remembers this lesson, being told not to appear out of nowhere, leaning against people and whispering horrible things. That's a habit he'd like to find once more, at this second. There is an urge to get closer, to wrap his arms around the person in front of him. Does he feel this way, though? What his heart wants has always been nonsensical at best. Falsifying love to ensure a hint of control, exactly as Zera picked chess pieces to put them in a neat order on the board. Jaibo never cared much about chess. Sure, he learned the rules by watching Zera, how he furrowed in concentration, opting for the most satisfactory strategy to bring Tamiya to his knees. It doesn't mean he would be able to sit down for a whole game, nor find much happiness in getting crushed.

 

Finally, after a lifetime of 'no' and 'let's pretend we are strangers', Tsunekawa blinks, pushing his glasses up. He avoids his gaze with care, eyes lingering towards the exit to ensure the quickest route to safety.

 

“I'm afraid,” oh yes you are, “that I do not recall your—Oh Ameya, yes the clinic.”

 

Jaibo has to admit they have never been ones to use their birth names, nor be so formal around each other. His fingers twitch as he runs his tongue against the liquid on the back of his hand.

 

“I'm Jaibo.”

 

“Still?”

 

Why—it's not a phase one can grow out of. It's not similar to playing emperor in a basement or an old factory. Jaibo is his identity, whereas Zera was a mask. In the end, it doesn't matter enough for him to say it. He steps aside, not wishing to push Tsunekawa against the wall to rip his organs out one after another.

 

A part of him has such desire, in the same way forever used to mean something.

 

“It's my name, I picked it.”

 

“You have always been one for callous choices.”

 

Is he saying 'please aim for the jugular, albeit with enough care to twist the knife inside a couple of times, so I am able to enjoy the agony before bleeding on your shoes'? He hesitates for a moment, longing to snap the drink for himself, emptying it in one go. He doubts Tsunekawa is into anything strong though. His constitution has always been poor.

 

His sharp jaw and neatly-styled hair might offer him a touch of sophistication, although it's not enough for Jaibo to believe he could withstand a punch better than years prior. Around them, the bar has turned into a constant chatter pushing his nerves to the limit. Leaving would be the easy option, especially as they both wish for nothing else. They cannot. The weight they are carrying since these days won't allow such escape.

 

“We shall sit down and reminisce of old times, I suppose.”

 

 

     Passion has long run dry, leaving them empty handed as they faced their own mistakes. Impossible to escape childhood unscathed, scars growing akin to weeds against his skin. The mind is another matter, something which wasn't fine before the events which cost them their playground. Jaibo never appreciated the factory, struggling to comprehend how it could be anyone's kingdom. He leans against the seat, legs taking too much space under the table. Tsunekawa is forced to cross his, narrowly avoiding hitting his old friend in the process.

 

“We have little to exchange.”

 

That's true. A nemesis is meant to hold such power they become impossible to defeat. Here, all Jaibo can see is how Tsunekawa is fidgeting with his gloves, obviously not at ease. To instigate fear into someone, you have to take a lot from them, he guesses. There is the shadow of a boy who was so lonely he believed in a fortune teller between glasses. That's almost enough, for a second, to allow Jaibo to forget years of lies and empty promises.

 

In a perfect movie, the kind Ran gushes about for hours, they would blurt out apologies in unison. Awkward smiles would blossom on their lips, the night ending with laughter and something sincere.

 

Zera and Jaibo, or rather Tsunekawa and Ameya, won't reach such point anytime soon.

 

“I didn't know you lived in this town.”

 

_I am not a stalker._

 

“I was not assuming otherwise, do not fret.”

 

_You scared me to death, you cretin!_

 

“Zera,” he tries.

 

The man winces. His whole body tensing, shoulders rising, as to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Zera. Lychee. Mount Fuji. Spoon. Gelatin. Hikari Club.”

 

Nothing is right. Never before Jaibo has wished to backpedal from a situation so badly. He doesn't want to sit there at all! Even as the factory was burning down, flames licking his skin—who took him out? It certainly wasn't Zera. He doesn't want to remember such futile details. Not as he rips the pins off his jackets, staring at them in silence. He should shallow them, metal stabbing his insides.

 

“You ruined my club, that's right.”

 

Faking assurance, Tsunekawa offers his hand, palm up, obtaining nothing in return. Jaibo won't offer him anything, he snarls, clenching his fist around the pins. _I hate you, you hate me!_

 

“Jaibo, do you remember my first name?”

 

Not Ameya anymore? Why? Does it sound foreign to both of them? Confused, he relents his grip, not realizing it until Zera has stolen his rainbow. It twirls between fingers covered in black. One glove has a moon, the second a star. Which is weird, as no one would want to be reminded of number zero and eight. The star is different though, a golden thread sewed against the fabric, rather than cheap paint. The moon is silver, both complimenting each other somehow. Jaibo thinks it gives his old leader something akin to a fortune teller look, which makes no sense.

 

“Zera was Zera.”

 

He follow the rainbow pin with his eyes, watching it vanish from one hand to another. Ah, Tsunekawa is keeping him calm this way, or rather focused on the conversation. Is it something he learned in therapy? Might be the case. Both of them needed it to some extend. The remaining pin is forgotten on the table, not mattering much.

 

“It's Hiroyuki. Tsunekawa Hiroyuki. You do remember the first part, perhaps from hearing it in class back then. Though you were keen on paying much attention to anything outside of my words.”

 

“I was obsessed.”

 

“To the point it cost us everything.”

 

_You didn't die at fourteen. I didn't either. Isn't it enough?_

 

“I won't apologize.”

 

“Neither will I,” he admits, offering the pin back.

 

Jaibo snatches it immediately, refusing to relent another treasure to that man. The conversation isn't taking a turn he cannot comprehend, for now. Thus, he can deal with it. Hiroyuki, hm. He truly did forget, replacing names he didn't appreciate with whatever sounded easier to repeat endlessly. Tsunekawa saying he won't apologize means he understands his flaws too, right? It seems far-fetched for the kids who pushed mistakes on each other back for years. Easier to blame a ghost than oneself.

 

“It's a bar for people like me.”

 

“Perhaps we share more similarities than I lead you to believe back then.”

 

Opening his jacket with a smirk, Tsunekawa reveals his reason to belong there. The metallic pin above his lungs has three colors. Oh, he knows this one, it's also in the basket! It means he can appreciate different genders without acting in disgust any longer. That's better than keeping secrets for too long, allowing them to rule your life.

 

“It's quite obvious we will avoid coming there on the same nights in the future, isn't it?”

 

“Hm-hm.”

 

The truth would shatter the bar as a whole, glasses exploding and chairs ending with missing legs. That's why they are not allowed to confess all the details at once. What they have done is unforgivable, or it could have been. Hiroyuki can put a pleasant act on for a moment, until he'll go home to throw up repressed emotions. Jaibo doesn't have much hope this has truly improved. After all, they cannot be cured only with time and attention. It runs too deep, in the cells inside their bodies. Each of them has been contaminated from birth, multiplying endlessly.

 

“Do not follow me home, Jaibo-kun.”

 

“Fuck off, Hiro-chan.”

 

They quit each other not long after with razor-sharp smiles and a promise to avoid meeting again.

 

 

    On accident, he saves someone's life, in the middle of a grocery store. An annoying sound is playing from the speakers, drowning the calls for help from the man crouching on the floor. Jaibo regrets not wearing sunglasses, in the middle of alleys too bright, surrounded by products he might forget in cupboards for weeks. The problem is that there is a body in the way. The song is still blasting above him, something about eating fish to be happy and smart and he's fine with being neither of these things if he can aim well enough with his knife, murdering the speakers.

 

Anyway, the person hasn't moved, even with some moron above them, begging for assistance. In the middle of a supermarket? On a Tuesday evening? That sounds dreadful. What happened anyway? Heart failure? Something else? Basket in hand, he steps over what could as well be a corpse, ignoring someone frantically calling emergency services on their phone in the background.

 

Ah, on this side he notice blood. It's pooling on the floor, although there is a deep stain on the fruits display. Its sharp corner apparently collided against the victim as they fell. Were they pushed by the person next to them, visibly terrified? Then, it would be quite pathetic.

 

Abandoning his basket on the floor, Jaibo pushes the pest away with his foot before crouching down.

 

“What are you doing, kid?!”

 

There is a mark on the side of the head. Is it bad? Probably enough if it caused fainting. The chest is rising well though, so he supposes she'll live. Airway working fine, let's move to the next point. Recovery position then. He rolls the woman on the side, elevating her bleeding arm right after.

 

He could tell the guy panicking to hold it, although he is certainly unfamiliar with pressure points and all this stuff. Jaibo moves to sit completely on the floor. That's complicated to put someone the right way when he is only able to use one of her arms to do so. Is her head high enough? It must be, as she starts to open her eyes. It has been more than one minute, not a great sign.

 

What are the questions, already? Jaibo isn't certain—no, that's a lie. He remembers them perfectly. It's complicated to manage both this and the pressure he is applying against the artery in the inside of her elbow at once. He isn't allowed to let go, so she better not try siting up.

 

The guy is gone, he remarks while glancing around. There are customers and employees alike standing above them, making him dizzy for a second. Could they at least turn off the damn speakers before he turns deaf?

 

“Name?” He mumbles, repeating the word (na-me, it doesn't end with an 'i' therefore it's not very fun) until she offers an answer.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I don't know~”

 

“Is this my blood?”

 

Not the panic. He could tell her the liquid is absolutely stunning, such a pretty color. Most people freak out when they hear that kind of truth, forcing Jaibo to find something else. He doesn't want to say 'it's alright', as his tone wouldn't match the words.

 

“You won't die,” maybe that's shitty, not offering much hope. Oh, the people around them, worriedly chatting, could assume this role in his place, if they didn't seem even sicker than his patient.

 

Patient.

 

Disgusting!

He isn't his dad, Ameya senior, the fantastic doctor old ladies fawn over without knowing what happens in his office once the patients are asleep. Nurse fucker.

 

“You won't die, I'm applying pressure on your wound.”

 

As for the one on her head—it isn't bleeding right now. They'll check it at the hospital anyway. After what seems to be the end of the world, emergency services finally reach the grocery store. To their credit, they are unfazed by the scene, replacing Jaibo's hands with their own within seconds. His body was starting to ache and he waves his arms to get blood back inside after getting up.

 

“This boy is a true hero!”

 

No, please.

Jaibo is aware of what to do with unconscious bodies for having kept many in his bedroom when he was younger than ten. Pretty boys all for himself, unable to flee his devious affection. There is nothing heroic about that.

 

“My dad is a doctor,” he explains, walking past the crowd without allowing anyone to grab him on his way out.

That's not his battle any longer, whatever happens to the person doesn't concern him much. He finds himself unable to care, glaring at the stains on his hoodie while wondering why there is a weird sensation in the middle of his rotten inside. As if—he's uneasy, as he didn't provoke any of this. Usually, when blood, quite rarely these days, ends up on his clothes, it's from victims he picked. Animals no quick enough to avoid his deadly instincts.

 

That's weird.

Not necessary bad.

Simply weird.

 

 

    “I saved someone the other day,” he tells his father during his next visit in Keikou, sitting on his desk as if it was the most appropriate place to be. Akin to a lazy cat, he leans against the sun patch hitting the room, almost knocking pens and documents off, “with my medical skills.”

 

“I'm proud of you, is it what you want to hear? Please get off my desk.”

 

“Why are people stupid? Veins, organs, these things are easy. It's not like—voices and sentences. It all makes sense.”

 

“Have you considered that, perhaps, you are simply quite smarter than them?”

 

“I was in a class for disabled children, until gra-a-a-a-duation.”

 

Pushing papers away, his father lets out a sigh, grabbing his hand to observe the bones Jaibo traced with markers during the train ride. Each is at the exact place where it belongs, of course.

 

“You're clever, and different from your peers. Being autistic doesn't make you less worthy.”

 

“Does it—excuse my actions? My thoughts? Racing. Uncontrollable.”

 

“No. It doesn't justify them either. You were not a good child, and you're a passable adult. Still my kid, however.”

 

Nothing new, then. Jaibo isn't certain of enjoying the way his father squeezes his hand around his, in a touch meant to be comforting. It's weird, for them who never had any contact for years. He's that man's child. It's weird. Obviously, they are related by blood, tests have proved it. To be a family though, that's another matter completely. Jaibo hums, withdrawing his hand to put it between the sunlight and him, blocking rays trying to caress his face. He spreads his fingers, allowing some warmth to reach his cheeks.

 

“The fire was good. Burning down, everything, it saved me.”

 

“Can you not be dramatic when we are trying to have a bonding moment, Jaibo.”

 

“Kyaha~”

 

 

    He opens Line to twelve messages from Ran, all about a reunion for their little club. A way to show they have changed, gotten better for sure. She is so excited, she writes. Worried too, as judgment as always been too quick between them.

 

_I can't come_ , he replies in the middle of the night, brain bouncing from one corner of the skull to another, _I don't want to._

 

He goes anyway, abusing the hair straightener and wearing enough make up to hide the lines he imagines on his face. Some battles never truly end, no matter how hard you fight.

 

 

     “Death is the sole option, I'm telling you, they will skin me alive, wearing my pelt as a proof of their crushing victory!”

 

Why is Hiroyuki always like this? It's a pain, Jaibo tells himself as he leans against the bathroom's door. Inside, Tsunekawa has been having a breakdown for the past seventeen minutes, alternating between throwing up and saying awful things with a hoarse voice. Why did they decide to take the train together already? Ah yes, because they are the unloved members who shouldn't even bother showing their faces.

 

That's fine, anyway they are going to miss their ride if Tsunekawa continue to be a wreck. Jaibo wouldn't say he cares much. Hm, Ran and Jacob promised to hand him new movies if he is on time though. That sounds kind of cool. Brand new stories he isn't familiar with.

 

“Zera. Zera. Zera,” with each repetition, his voice grows louder, until a palm is pounding on the other side of the door.

 

“Stop it, you pitiful whore!”

 

“Zera. Zera. Zera.”

 

“Jaibo!”

 

“Zera. Zera.”

 

The door slams open, causing him to lose his balance and almost tumble on the ex-emperor. Good thing his body and brain combine immediately to avoid that. He stares at the furious man with a toothbrush in hand, wondering if he plans to hit him with such mediocre weapon.

 

“Hiroyuki, ready now?”

 

His expression, fake innocence with a mocking smile, matches quite well with the absolute annoyance on Tsunekawa's face. That's what you get for being a jerk, he'd like to say. Except he doesn't have to, as they are aware of their flaws, wearing them on their sleeves since childhood.

 

“Never have I met such insufferable individual as you.”

 

“In-su-ffe-rable~”

 

That's another battle without a victor, the kind where they refuse to yield weapons long rendered useless. Sharp minds keep on trying to crush each other, to pick the one who should be allowed to remain alive. To be honest, Jaibo still has fantasies about roaming a blade through that guy's organs. It's here, a faint itch prompting him to smile when he shouldn't. Should they walk to the train station now? Apparently, considering the door shut in his face seconds later, he might have to wait a little longer.

 

They won't protect each other, there's no use in pretending otherwise. If anything, they'll stand against each other, as they have for a long time. Jaibo found acceptable to never meet Hiroyuki ever again, even if they exchanged Line IDs at the bar. Why did he contact him to ask if they could take the train together then? Maybe he didn't want to be the sole asshole present.

 

How is his little Kaneda? Still easy to terrify?

 

They should have burned down, allowing Jaibo to disappear in smoke, covering his traces and never been found. How despicable, to have thoughts like these, basked in cruelty.

 

Hands are clapped in front of face, loudly, causing Jaibo to hiss. Oh, Hiroyuki came out, a hint of makeup on his face, breath as fresh as if he hadn't almost thrown his intestines up.

 

“We cannot afford being late, snap out of your morbid reverie.”

 

“Hiroyuki knows me so well, it's gross~”

 

 

    They pile in Jacob and Ran's flat, struggling to fit everyone in the living room. Shock is painted, akin to war paint, on these strangers' faces when they notice who is present. It hardens them within seconds, as if a battle was inevitable. Jaibo sits on the highest place he finds, which ends up being the back of the couch, offering only his back to these kids he erased from memory. _Who are you? I don't remember_. He can associate names and faces, mostly. Some easier than others. Nico, with his glass eye, glaring daggers as soon as they step in, Tamiya, so tall and out of place, unable to get comfortable as he finds a spot on the rug. They were Tsunekawa's friends, or rather puppets, but to Jaibo their existence couldn't matter less.

 

“Here, silly.”

 

Ran offers a mug of warm tea, forcing it into his hands with a sigh. It's difficult to remain on Earth, when his mind wanders towards burning stars.

 

Listening takes all his energy out of his body, especially as he has to refrain from laughing at Tsunekawa saying they walked past each other on the street per accident. They go to the same LGBTI center, that's all. Is the emperor filled with shame? That would be quite foolish. There's nothing wrong with that. The annoying part comes from their need for control over others.

 

Stutters invades the room as Kaneda, hair pushed back out of his face unlike what Jaibo remembers, talks about his cat and classes at university. Bo~ring. Who cares?

 

What's the point of such reunion? Was it to exchange apologies like real adults do with business cards? To bond when they are already far from friends back then? He sips his tea without understanding why they decided to create such meaningless day.

 

“And what about you, Jaibo?”

 

Who is attempting to communicate? Oh, it's Jacob. Stupid man dragging him into the conversation. He hums, a random song on the tip of his tongue. _I don't hate you anymore_ , he thinks first, _I merely stopped caring_.

 

“I'm still _Jaibo_.”

 

That's enough.

Glee invades his throat at the realization; it means a creature to them, something which can't be tamed, only stopped. Great, let them believe there is nothing more to his name. As he starts giggling, the others are suddenly eager to babble about the delicious food Ran made for them. Shouldn't they worry more? Poison could always be a possibility around there. Keikou, albeit less polluted than years ago, remains a gamble. Accidents on the streets, people vanishing from time to time. Only the ones without families or importance.

 

Who gets to decide who should live or not?

 

As Ran walks past him, he grabs her sleeve, dragging her too close for comfort on either side.

 

“Tea tastes good.”

 

“I bought lychee-flavored one for everyone, except you. The others, it was to teach them a lesson,” she whispers, removing the empty mug from his grip, “you are a bit too—unpredictable so you got rose instead.”

 

As if he would have slaughtered a whole room over a cup of tea. Lychee is a flavor hard to swallow, even more than Zera's was back then. Ah, that's not the right time to remember that. There isn't one, honestly.

 

What's the conversation about by that point? He leans back, not wishing to observe them more than necessary. College. Oh, fuck it and them and everything on this forsaken planet. Jumping off the couch with ease, Jaibo spins around, fingers brushing against his lips.

 

“You're pissing me off, ants roaming against my skin. Bye bye~!”

 

The door is far, the window closer. He won't turn this into a freak show more than it needs, therefore he walks to the easiest exist, grabbing shoes on the way. Voices echo behind his steps, one above the rest, claiming he is a piece of shit who shouldn't have come. Brave, or because he is truly stupid, Jaibo turns around.

 

_I should have taken your other eye!_

 

“Nico nico~ Still jealous you couldn't fuck Zera?”

 

All hell breaks loose.

 

 

    Rather than remaining on the battleground, they find refuge on the balcony, enemies licking their wounds next to each other. He has never appreciated Nico, too much details turning them into mirrors. It's not like Zera, because Jaibo and Zera are monsters. Nico—is scars and anger, like Jaibo. That's different, another sort of problem they will never address. Mostly because neither is talented with words.

 

Leaning against the railing, Nico still seems ready for a second round, which would be hilarious as Jaibo wouldn't hesitate to aim directly for the vital parts if he attempted anything. Earlier, they evacuated years of unhealthy rivalry, that felt better, grabbing and pushing until Ran threw water at their face to make them chill. Slightly too late, Jaibo would say. He nurses his wrist already turning red, massaging the swollen area while keeping an eye on his enemy. He half-expects Nico to leap across the balcony, wrapping hands around his throat, reaching for the hyoid bone and squeezing.

 

“You're so fucking messed up!” The dog barks, wincing at his dislocated shoulder, “why do you always have to say that bullshit!”

 

Carpal bones must be still in place, merely bruised from Nico twisting his wrist as much as he could to avoid getting stabbed. Does he still have his knife? Yes, they didn't remove it from his grasp, even as he threatened everyone in the room. He spins it between his fingers, pleased to have picked a butterfly one as his companion for the journey; versatile and deadly, it's one of his favorites.

 

“That's too complicated, good or bad, innocent or guilty! Tiresome~ I don't like difficult topics like those.”

 

Back when they were children, roaming without anyone caring about them, Jaibo found solace in avoiding to organize his thoughts. Being labeled as things he didn't understand was easy to ignore. Here, it's flimsy, to avoid everything he doesn't appreciate.

 

“I didn't want to fuck Zera, bastard.”

 

“You did want him~” Whatever it was romantic or physical doesn't matter. Jaibo isn't certain of the difference still. Something about wanting affection with or without receiving it, maybe.

 

“I'm not a freak like you.”

 

Oh, that stings.

 

“Gay? I am.”

 

“Wait—Jaibo, fuck you're so stupid. I'm saying—forget it,” Nico seems to deflate, considering him with what feels more like pity than annoyance. Strange that he has any to spare, it has never been his thing.

 

“I don't understand~”

 

He crawls in the space between them, leaving Nico uneasy and ready to kick. His foot collides with Jaibo's chest, which is sadly not enough to stop him. He wants everything at once, to strip Nico of his right to breathe and to defy his existence. Blood is meant to pour, behind them, rivers of scarlet invading their surroundings until they cannot say futile things. He ends up sitting between the guy's legs, abandoning any pretense of social norms. Whatever if he gets punched and shoved back, that's how it is with the mad dog in front of him.

 

He muted the conversation, background noise barely audible, when he narrated his actual life. Jaibo has no reason to pretend caring after all.

 

The blade between his fingers is glinting, drops of blood stuck here and there. _Trachea. Pulmonary artery. Bronchi._ Where to aim? He raises his hand thinking too much rather than not enough. Thoughts are twirling, a storm raging and refusing to show him which method would be the deadliest.

 

Before he is able to paint everything in such a pretty red, the knife slips off his fingers, falling between them.

 

_Jaibo hates._

He hates Nico's expression, disgust mixed annoyance. Hates how his fingers are trembling when they shouldn't be, his wrist not even broken. Hates the way he cannot breathe suddenly. Hates how they all lived but he had to die that day, to come back to a world filled with strangers. He hates everything at once.

 

No one ever came back for him. His dad admitted, not long ago, that the fire had managed to damage a draining pipe, flooding the factory and stopping itself in the process. He was found almost drowned, skin peeling off and sensations gone. Jaibo would have preferred—ah no, it doesn't matter.

 

“Go on, stab me.”

 

Bold words from someone with a dislocated shoulder.

 

“You can't, hm? I don't really care why, you're always been more unstable than a salad shaker.”

 

Nico straightens his body, valid arm grabbing the one Jaibo still hasn't lowered yet, tugging him close.

 

“Cut it out, we ain't kids anymore. I didn't love Zera like you, dumbass. I did enjoy to be appreciated but I knew it was a lie. You did too, I guess, even if you made yourself believe otherwise. Don't ask me why, I don't wanna know what's up in that brain of yours. We're no rivals or anything lame like that, stop thinking it's the case.”

 

Rage remains tucked underneath his fingers, aching until Jaibo wants to rip his fingernails off. He can't, he promised himself he wouldn't be a wreck in front of these losers. He's sick of being the weirdo, the abnormal one. Nico is so close he can see his reflection in his eyes, one fake the other real. Letting out a pitiful sound, he presses his forehead against Nico' shoulder, wanting to hide and to disappear for a moment.

 

Perhaps he'll get beaten up for that.

Ah, he's perfectly able to fight back. Anyone. Anytime.

 

“If you cry on me, I'm throwing you off that fuckin' balcony, hope you get that.”

 

That's a disgusting moment for both of them, to be so familiar, touching each other in this bizarre fashion which makes little sense. Jaibo doesn't want to move back so quickly. He has to collect himself first, find every bit scattered on the ground at their feet, pushing them into his heart where they belong.

 

“You shouldn't have come, it's bad for your head. And mine.”

 

“Hm.”

 

How do you start over? Rewind a conversation like an old VHS tape like the ones his father hoards in their basement, it shouldn't be such a challenge. Words build up in his throat, Jaibo not managing to get them out properly. He offers a crooked smile instead, something mean and terrifying because that's all he has for himself.

 

His hands jerks forward, suddenly grabbing Nico. He doesn't offer a warning, merely mouthing 'three, two, and—' he pulls the bone back into its socket. The bastard almost headbutts him in return, colors drained off his face as he swears in a colorful way Jaibo has kind of missed. It didn't feel like the joint was completely out of the socket, merely—not exactly at the right place.

 

Sure, he might have damaged _blood vessels, ligaments or even muscles_. It's unlikely though, he knows what he is doing, as the child of a doctor. More or less. Yeah, that was an impulsive move.

 

As Nico tentatively manages to move his shoulder without dying, he decides it'll do the job.

 

“An ice-pack would help. A real doctor too.”

 

“I should hit you.”

 

Jaibo flickers his injured wrist in the air, gesture reduced by the swelling.

 

“Hit you harder than that.”

 

“Nico nico is mean~”

 

“Nico is very tired of your constant bullshit. Let's never mention Zera and us like that again, ok?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Good fucking talk.”

 

Neither makes a move to return inside. That's—in a similar fashion than his meeting with Tsunekawa months prior, Jaibo is aware it doesn't fix things. Nico and him simply have to avoid crossing paths. That sounds slightly easier, as the other still lives in Keikou whereas he does not. Ah, being trapped in this polluted town is a punishment most of them have to go through. He's glad anyway, that they got to settle some things. There is comfort is carrying less possible corpses behind him each day.

 

“Hey, Jaibo?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You're almost sitting on me,” he can see Nico's good eye twitching as he says that.

 

He giggles, unable to stop himself, wrapping his arms around Nico' shoulders and leaning even closer.

 

“Nico isn't my type at all, I can't deal with his strength.”

 

This time, he gets headbutted for such remark, albeit without much violence. They are out of it, having beat up each other enough for one night. Jaibo is quick to let go, sitting a little farther than the fake favorite of the club. Ah, here is his knife!

 

Back into his pocket for the night.

 

Silence is almost comfortable as they remain there, something which would have been impossible back in the club when one was barking and the second taunting everyone. Titling his head back, Jaibo glances at the sky, unable to find a single stars. A thick smoke is hiding them from his greedy eyes.

 

“What are you doing? With your life?”

 

“Construction worker, it doesn't pay well but I like it. You?”

 

“Hm—Therapy?”

 

“Must be a full-time job for you.”

 

“Yeah~”

 

He tucks his legs against his chest, wondering when Ran will bother unlocking the balcony door so they can get back inside. She might have forgotten. It's kind of cold outside so it wouldn't be great to die there. Being forced to feed on Nico's corpse to stay alive doesn't sound tempting at all.

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

“Foolish things.”

 

Nico doesn't bother asking which ones.

That's better this way.

 

 

     A sprained wrist isn't a heavy burden to carry. He merely has to keep ice packs around and be gentle with his body. Jaibo doesn't bother fetching more Line IDs or phone number. What would be the point? He has no need for them in his life, and the opposite is also true. He sleeps at the clinic, falling on the couch is easier than reaching the house only two streets away. Tucked under blankets in his father's office. That's reminiscent of childhood, after his mother left and he couldn't bear the silence. He dreams of pushing marbles down the stairs, and her falling by accident. Only once, enough for her leg to break.

 

It was not caused with ill-intend. A child playing the wrong game at the wrong time, that's deplorable. A mundane activity, bringing him joy as marbles raced each other down, only to end in the middle of the hallway. That's not why she abandoned the household, he understood it—oh well not long ago. There were dozen of reasons, mostly related to her husband and pressure from everyone because she couldn't have a perfect little boy like they wanted. Wherever she is now, Jaibo doesn't mind. Perhaps she built something safer elsewhere, on a town surrounded by the sea, waves echoing under her window in the morning.

 

He sticks with that thought until he hears the door sliding open.

 

“Hello there.”

 

He waves his bandaged wrist, sitting up as blankets fall on the floor. Hm, it feels too early for a discussion.

 

On the bright side, his father appears to share this thought, going through paperwork in silence. As a child, he would climb and hide, stealing whatever looked 'fun' enough for later. That's not an appropriate place to raise a kid, with this scent of chemicals always present. Too late for a refund, he decides, curling his toes before getting up.

 

He was meant to take the train home with Hiroyuki. Ah, that's not like they had bought tickets beforehand, it's fine. Jaibo yawns, wondering how little he slept, not bothering to cover his mouth. The bastard can find his way back by himself.

 

“I hope you didn't bleed on the couch.”

 

“Oh, the stern dad voice, scary~”

 

He twirls across the office, as to mock his father and his dubious rules. He has always been one for violence, it doesn't mean he is coming back with blood on his clothes every time. Sure, there is some, from the fight with Nico. It has nothing to do with his younger days and dead frogs abandoned in front of his father's bedroom door as offerings from a caring feline.

 

_Oh, frogs!_

 

“Do you—hm, my frog?”

 

“Your frog?”

 

“The stuffed one—my frog.”

 

“The frog you stabbed on a weekly basis only to watch me stitch it up until you were like seven?”

 

“Hm-hm, my frog.”

 

“Your frog, yes. It must be in the basement with your old toys.”

 

“I want it.”

 

“Now?”

 

There is no reply, as Jaibo is already outside, collecting his shoes and walking through the streets between buildings. He doesn't have the key to the house, which isn't a problem as his bedroom window is easy to reach. His bones protest, from the previous night, as he climbs the wall with less ease than when he was a kid. So, the basement.

 

They shouldn't have hoarded so many things, he has to run from one box to another, cutting them open without bothering closing them after. Eventually, after finding a couple of robots he stole from Zera's when they were children (among other tokens from boys he liked), Jaibo drags an old decrepit green thing from a box. Here it is! The poor thing. He stabbed it countless times, wanting to rip it open to touch its inside, only for his father to sew everything back with a sigh every time.

 

Box under his arms, he finds his way into the garden, putting the frog aside from the rest. That's an ugly stuffed animal, the kind you carry with you from birth only to forget it suddenly when you enter school. He has fondness towards it though. In the same way he is delighted at the fire produced by the memories going ablaze in front of his eyes. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, he watches as old treasures vanish, finding relief in the gesture. He doesn't even remember many of these kids he wanted to keep for himself anymore.

 

“Did you have a name, froggy?~ Probably not.”

 

He hold it against his chest for a moment, until dust invades his nose. Someone needs a bath. Well, they both do, as he carries the remains of the previous night against his skin. He ought to take one now, long and warm. His reflection won't be too much of a bother, it hasn't been in a while. He's simply Jaibo, that's all.

 

 

     The picture of the fixed frog with a huge bow on its head serves as his phone wallpaper for a while. Ran explained the process, replacing dead skin with new one. Except she mentioned 'a clean fabric' instead. The meaning is almost identical anyway. He leaves it on his bed, sometimes feeling like ripping its legs off. He manages to keep a semblance of control over such urges, opting to squeeze stress toys almost to death or filling coloring books which seem endless, movies playing in the background. That's not perfect; Jaibo doubts he'll ever be fine, his mind struggling to adapt and cope with this world.

 

He has stopped to care, doing as he can. He recently managed to get a job five hours per week, helping his neighbors with groceries or helping them to write letters or emails to their families, posting packages for them and hoping they'll arrive quickly enough. He dreams of factories burning down, sometimes. They are dark and unwelcoming, so he walks outside for hours, counting stars and laying on the grass in parks, convincing himself it was long ago.

 

He's an adult, he survived.

 

“Your name is weird,” a young man tells him one evening, as they drink together at an event organized by the association Jaibo is a member of, “Jaibo, it sounds made up.” There is fondness in the voice rather than judgment. As if the guy's able to understand.

 

Jaibo grins, spinning a straw in his drink. “It's a long story.”

 

“Would you share it with me?”

 

“It would take all night. The story's not very happy, it has evil children and a robot who couldn't take its first breath. Lychees too,” he leans forward, as to whisper a secret, “maybe I was the evilest one of them all.”

 

The stranger—well he knows his name, it simply doesn't matter yet—nods sagely at the proposal, as if he omitted the ending on purpose.

 

“I'd love to hear it. And you don't seem to be that terrible.”

 

“Who knows~ But I'll tell you, if you buy me another drink.”

 

“Deal.”

 

Ameya Jaibo is happy, sometimes.


End file.
